Who Am I?   The question makes me shudder. I catch glimpses in the mirror just before it fogs up with my fears and delusions — genius, dimwit, pilgrim, lover of the loving cup, waster of those hours spent wishing to be something else, not just a droplet of time in the ocean of forever. A friend to everyone — me, but a better me, a mathematical constant, a prime number of everyone I’ve ever been.   I told him my name, address, next of kin. My occupation, too, such as it was — whatever I said was lost in the din of radio crackle, ringing phones. Does it matter who I was and what I might have done? I kept my answers brief, my story simple. I left out a lot, like when it snowed on my birthday. He couldn’t write the truth even if I told him. What more to say — I’m everything I’ve ever been.   The Abenaki don’t say they are from a place — they say they are that place, which makes me Wyoming, where the power lines hum with the wind. San Francisco, where fog rakes its fingers through the streets. I’m Thailand, too, and England, Swaziland, even New Jersey, New Hampshire, California again. I am Manhattan, where the avenues stretch to the stars. I am Vermont — it stirs my soul. I’m everywhere I’ve ever been.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont May 2025